


Drabbles

by notmyrevolution



Series: Permanent [10]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles relating to the Permanent verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re not ones for kissing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ There's a thing for this.](http://aparticularlygoodfinder.tumblr.com/post/51355802895/nic-this-is-all-your-fucking-fault-more)

They’re not ones for kissing.

They’ll kiss during sex, sure. They’ll make use of their mouths while their hands are occupied, swallowing sighs and gasps. It’s reflex, an action born from the moment, maybe even an excuse. They trace lines and colours, press their lips against soul-stained skin, finding each other. They don’t kiss afterwards, though. They don’t kiss during the day, not to say hello or say goodbye.

They just  _don’t_.

Except that as Grantaire watches Bahorel sleep, all he wants to do is kiss him.

Bahorel is sprawled out on his back, taking up most of his side of Grantaire’s bed, and then some. His faced is pressed against his own bicep, his hair a ridiculous mess, caught in the early morning light, and Grantaire can’t put a name to the feeling that’s constricting his heart right now. It’s domestic, it’s  _stupid_ , and Grantaire hates himself for it.

He feels like an idiot, even as he sits up and straddles Bahorel’s hips without grace.  

Bahorel stirs then, attempting to shift beneath Grantaire’s weight and opening his eyes blearily when he’s unable to. He breathes in, then raises an eyebrow.

“What are you…?” He asks, voice heavy and rough.

“I wanna try something,” Grantaire says, a smirk on his face to hide his uncertainty. Bahorel opens his mouth to speak, and Grantaire leans forward, taking the chance, pressing their lips together. A noise comes from Bahorel’s throat, surprise, a moment of hesitation, then his fingers tangle into Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire braces his forearm against the bed, spine curved, bracketing Bahorel’s body with his own. Bahorel’s hand slides down his side, fingers feathering over his ribs, before settling against his hip. His thumb presses over  _love is not a victory march_ , and Grantaire’s heart tightens traitorously.

They’re pouring emotions into the open-mouthed kiss, but Grantaire isn’t ready to stop lying to himself. Not yet.

He’s content pretending that all they are is sex and tattoos. He’s good at these, uses them as armor, a mutually beneficial arrangement. He can ignore shared mornings, and the way Bahorel comes to the shop just to spend time with him. He pretends it’s a fluke that Bahorel knows how to make his coffee. He doesn’t think about the fact that Bahorel  _never_  drinks around him. It’s just sex and tattoos, and this is just a meaningless kiss.

They break apart, drawing in breath and Grantaire straightens himself. He’s not worried, but he watches Bahorel anyway,  _just in case_.

“Good morning,” Bahorel says, smirk knowing, fingers flexing against his hip. There’s a softness to him, though, something Grantaire recognises but can’t name. He reaches for the bedside table, closes his fingers around his cigarettes,  _distracts himself_.

“Want coffee?” Grantaire asks, sliding a cigarette between his lips, and leaning back against Bahorel’s thighs.

“Only if you’re making it,” Bahorel replies, and hands over the lighter with a grin.


	2. Matching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fuck, that looks good,” Bahorel says, and Grantaire nods in agreement as he cleans it up and wraps it neatly.
> 
> They don’t notice at all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompted by fanart, wherein they accidentally got drawn with matching tattoos.](http://aparticularlygoodfinder.tumblr.com/post/51446945242/nics-at-work-but-im-posting-this-now-anyway)

Bahorel has a lot more tattoos now.

Most of them are Grantaire’s, fixed in place from hours of careful work. Each thick, black line merges into another, Bahorel becoming a walking canvas for Grantaire’s work. An ever-growing portfolio, every time Bahorel has money or Grantaire is bored. It starts off being Bahorel’s ideas, a request to fix his shoulder, a suggestion that  _this would look good_  on his wrist, but eventually it evolves into a mutual, unspoken expansion. Grantaire places a stencil for a deep V across his chest, says  _what do you think_  and they do it. 

He works down, shoulders, back, biceps, forearm.

When he’s done, Bahorel has criss-crossing patterns trailing along his arm, and three bands circling his skin. Grantaire is pleased.

“Fuck, that looks good,” Bahorel says, and Grantaire nods in agreement as he cleans it up and wraps it neatly.

They don’t notice at all.

It’s Eponine who notices first, though she says nothing. Instead she smirks and gives Grantaire looks that are supposed to be significant, but are completely lost on him. She keeps commenting on his work, asking about Bahorel, and he answers with a bland disinterest.

Courfeyrac, on the other hand, it much more obvious about it.

“What’s with Bahorel’s new tattoo?” he asks one day, sitting down in Grantaire’s chair and propping his arm on the back. He rests his chin in his palm, and smiles  _knowingly._

“What do you mean ‘what’s with Bahorel’s new tattoo’? It a tattoo. He’s got enough of them,” Grantaire says, not looking up from the sketch in front of him. A pirate ship, for himself, because he’s the most under-tattooed tattoo-artist in Paris, and  _seriously_ , he needs to change that.

“I’m assuming you did it,” Courfeyrac says, leaning in, his grin growing wider.

“Of course I did,” Grantaire says, eyes flicking up. “It looks good on him. I’m pleased with it.”

“Of course you are,” Courfeyrac mimics, smirks, waits a beat. “I mean, it matches yours, so.”

Grantaire pauses then, the pencil pausing on the paper, hovering over it. His eyes flick over to Courfeyrac again, then down to his own forearm, where three dark, black bands wrap around the muscle. Courfeyrac can see the thoughts flying through his head as he figures it out.

“Oh,  _shit_ ,” Grantaire whispers, mostly to himself. Courfeyrac hears, though, and crows loudly.

“You gave him a matching tattoo!” He says, leaning back and laughing. “You actually gave him a tattoo that matched yours and  _neither of you noticed!”_

They notice later though. They notice later, when Bahorel has Grantaire’s arms pinned above his head, held in place with one hand. He can see the way Bahorel’s eyes follow his own arm down, jump over their linked fingers, study Grantaire’s skin. Three bands each, high on the left forearm, _matching._

“Huh,” Bahorel says, roughly, surprised but unbothered.

“Sorry?” Grantaire offers, though he doesn’t look like he has any remorse at all. Bahorel grins, cat-like, and leans down, stripping the apologies from his mouth and making Grantaire forget about tattoos entirely.

_(When they’re curled up later, with Bahorel’s arm across Grantaire’s chest, they align perfectly.)_


	3. Puppets vs. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is how it starts, with Grantaire scrolling through the music selection until he finds Master of Puppets, the song, and plays it.

This is how it starts, with Grantaire scrolling through the music selection until he finds  _Master of Puppets_ , the song, and plays it. Bahorel, who is flicking through the latest copy of Inked becausey _ou’re in here, trust me, you and that piece you did on Feuilly_  instantly looks up and raises an eyebrow and it’s not that Grantaire doesn’t like Feuilly it’s just that he wants to now play angry music loudly. That’s all.

“Trust you to like fucking ‘Master of Puppets’,” Bahorel says, and shakes his head.

“Excuse you?” Grantaire says with a laugh, “Who  _doesn’t_  like fucking ‘Master of Puppets’?”

“No one with a brain,” Bahorel admits, but grins cat-like as he continues, “But ‘…And Justice for All’ is better.

This is how they now find themselves. Grantaire is leaning over the counter gesturing emphatically with his pencil when he makes a significant point, and Bahorel propping himself up on the other side, magazine forgotten.

“See, you’re fucking wrong, because Orion is technically brilliant. You can’t compare that shit to To Live is To Die,” Grantaire argues, passionate, though smiling.

“I can fucking compare whatever I want. ‘…And Justice For All’ carries the theme of war and justice off perfectly, even fucking  _Enjolras_  likes it,” Bahorel counters, running his fingers through his hair.

“But the fucking production is flawless, and Enjolras has no taste. I’m not saying Justice is bad, but Puppets is better,” Grantaire says, and taps his pencil against the counter. Their voices are loud, beginning to drown out the music, and Grantaire can feel the flush climbing the back of his neck. An argument is just a like a fight, and he  _loves_  fighting Bahorel.

“If you’re trying to tell me your shitty song about Cthulhu is better than—” Bahorel starts, but Grantaire cuts him off.

“Finish that sentence and I’m gonna leap over this counter and punch you,” He says, fingers curling into a loose fist automatically. They both like Metallica, there’s no question to that. They agree that nothing after the Black Album exists ( _except for when they’re at a party, when everyone is loud and the mood is right, because only then will they give an amazing rendition of Whiskey in the Jar, complete with terrible Irish accents)_. But this, this is important. Grantaire thinks there’s a high chance Bahorel’s going home alone tonight.

The small bell rings as the door to the tattoo parlor opens, except Grantaire ignores it, because “Fuck no, you can’t tell me you don’t want to start a fight to ‘Disposable Hereos’”.

“I’d start a fight to Taylor Swift,” Bahorel replies and Grantaire rolls his eyes, finally looking at the customer, standing there and smiling at them.

“You guys discussing Metallica?” He asks, and Bahorel shrugs lazily. “My favourite album has to be ‘St. Anger’, it’s got such raw power behind it.”

Grantaire’s pencil stops tapping, and he raises an eyebrow slowly. He can see Bahorel pause, his muscles tensing.

“No,” Grantaire says, pointing to the door. “Get out.”

The guy looks perplexed, holding up a piece of paper and saying “But I’m a customer, I want a tattoo.”

“Nope,” Grantaire says again, shaking his head. “Go away and think about whatever is drastically wrong with your life, see the error of your ways, repent and only then, return.”

Grantaire can see the shift in his features, can see the way his eyebrows drop as this guy registers his words, then gets angry. His face flushes, his shoulders go back, everything about him says he’s about to start an argument,  _a real one_ , and Grantaire doesn’t have the patience for this.

Except Bahorel reads the guy’s body language too, can see the fight coming, and pushes himself off the counter. Grantaire is used to Bahorel, has seen him in the morning when he’s drooling on the pillow, has seen him carrying around Grantaire’s cat on his shoulders. Grantaire forgets how others see him. So when Bahorel stands,  _six-foot-five and full of muscles, tattooed, scar cutting through his eyebrow,_  and turns to the guy, Grantaire almost laughs.

“He told you to get out,” Bahorel says casually, each word underlined with a warning. Grantaire props his elbows on the counter, watches the guy calculate his odds against arguing and winning. Watches the guy raise his hands in surrender, and take a step back, before turning and walking out without a word.

“What are you, my fucking bodyguard?” Grantaire says, breaking into laughter.

“He liked ‘St. Anger’, I was looking for an excuse to punch him,” Bahorel replies, and settles back against the counter like he belongs there. Something warm lodges in Grantaire’s chest.

“Like you need an excuse, asshole,” He says, and his voice, without his permission, sounds fond. Bahorel watches him for a moment, then grins, all teeth.

“You’re still wrong about ‘Justice’, though.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me at http://notmyrevolution.tumblr.com, where in there's a bunch of fucking awesome fan art for this verse.


End file.
